Matt Murdock, priest

He endures a lot of John 9:25 jokes during his time in seminary. A lot.
There are also a lot of nights spent not getting drunk with Foggy Nelson–another wayward son of Hell’s Kitchen seeking refuge in Mother Church.
They are not getting drunk because the virtue of temperance forbids excess, of course.
(Foggy likes gin, and also scotch. And bourbon. Foggy is not picky. Matt is a little more picky, only because some liquor burns like the devil. They like to quote Matthew 11:19 at each other, when they toast.)
(Once, when he’s very drunk, Foggy says, Paul was blind for a while too, you know. Maybe you’re just…not too Damascus yet. And Matt had said, Sure, Foggy, even though his throat had gone tight and aching.)
“My mom wanted me to be a butcher,” Foggy says mournfully, as they study for the Biblical Hermeneutics final. “I bet butchers don’t have to worry about the Semitic substratum of Biblical Koine.”
“Probably not,” Matt says with a smile, “but I’ve heard those shoulder cuts can be very tough.”
His dad would have been proud, he thinks during his ordination, as he lays on the cool floor before the altar–a shepherd of men, a man of God, a man of peace. But rattling around his head, again and again is that verse from Matthew, I did not come to bring peace, but a sword.
The nuns from the orphanage come, and kiss his cheek, and pat his hand, so proud to see one of their own find his vocation. (Stick does not come. Stick left years ago, and Matt is fairly certain he wouldn’t want to see his warrior-protege here, with a clerical collar around his neck.)
He’s finally placed a little run-down parish at the heart of Hell’s Kitchen, which is precisely what he had begged the Archdiocese for.
(Seriously, between him and Foggy, they probably kept the whole office of the diocese in baked goods, trying to plead their case. The receptionists learned their names. Finally the Archbishop had to call them into his office and ask what in Christ’s name they were thinking, badgering his staff.)
Matt’s favorite part of his new parish is the preschool, because despite the fact that Matt Murdock is Not Good With Children, they learn all the old clapping songs about Jesus and fish, and they hug him, coming out of mass, calling him “Father Matt” which is–
he hadn’t thought it would feel that good, grounding and honest.
His other favorite part is how he and Foggy can meet for lunch, still–it’s a long bus ride, but Matt makes it religiously, once a week, and they mock each others’ homily choices.
His least favorite part is the way the cheap vestments chafe against his skin. Or maybe the weekly parish staff meeting, which always drags over, and involves three different people talking over each other.
(This is a lie, his least favorite part is Reconciliation–there’s something perverse about knowing when someone lies to you during their confession, or worse, when they tell the truth and the truth is terrible, and there is nothing he can do but reassure them, try.
…..he does more, of course. There are a lot of families sheltered in the basement of Saint Paul the Apostle as they search for something else, lots of women with bruises, who come and go through the rectory, lots of spare food in the pantry and coats in the closet and shoes, of many sizes; lots of children who stay after their CCD class, coloring with Father Matt as Child Services is notified.)
And it’s good, it’s enough, he tells himself it will be enough. You will always have the poor among you, and he can hear them crying out, every whimper and scream, but this must be enough.
Until it’s not.
(I did not come to bring peace, but a sword.)